


Choices

by nan00k



Series: Small World [6]
Category: Doctor Who, Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Sherlock (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Homophobia, Superwholock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-11
Updated: 2013-06-11
Packaged: 2017-12-14 16:19:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/838883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nan00k/pseuds/nan00k
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After failing at ending the world, Crowley made a series of choices to save his own life… and the lives of the very few people that ever mattered. (Part of the Small World AU series. SuperWhoLock plus Good Omens.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Choices

**Author's Note:**

> In which Crowley has feelings. Urgh. Also, I've adjusted some parts of the Doctor Who timeline for the following installment. Whovians, you will know it when you see it. As always, just accept what you read at face value.
> 
> Warnings: MASSIVE crossover, mixing of canons, alternative universe setting, dark themes, mention of homophobia  
> Disclaimers: Supernatural © Kripke/CW. Good Omens © Pratchet and Gaiman. Doctor Who © BBC. Sherlock © Moffat/Gatiss.

**Mayfair, London  
1990**

Demons did not care about other people.

That was harder for Crowley to believe after recent events.

Six months after the failed Apocalypse, he could not sleep.

He _was_ a demon. He did not have to sleep. In fact, it was optional both ways, so he did it when he could. Aziraphale never understood or shared his enthusiasm for sleep, but he was an angel so his idea of a good time was never quite on par with Crowley's.

He did enjoy it. Sleeping was just another interesting quirk mortals had, but for him, it was sort of like his hobby of growing plants. It was just something to do every day. It had become routine. Crowley felt like something was amiss whenever he skipped a day or two of an eight-hour sleep.

But six months after nearly battling the Devil and the forces of destiny to save Earth, Crowley could not sleep. He could not, even if he wanted, and he did try to.

He could not sleep because he knew that as each new hour passed in the new post-not-apocalyptic world, another clock was running out. His own clock.

Hell would not forgive nor forget his betrayal. He had caused a seven thousand year old plan to spiral into chaos and ultimate failure. He had helped the would-be anti-Christ give up on fate and make their own future.

He tried to be optimistic. Aziraphale was forcing it himself, being all smiles and acting like nothing at all had happened in the last ten years that was different than the thousands of years they had shared together on Earth. They went out to dinner and went back to their respective dwellings. Crowley watered his plants and Aziraphale never sold a single book in his shop. The Bentley continued to play Queen and the world did not cease to exist.

But one afternoon, six months later, Crowley was forced to abandon any feeble sense that things would be all right after all. He had not been able to sleep because in the back of his mind, he knew…

He knew they were coming for him.

Six months and a day after the failed-apocalypse, Crowley had drifted around his flat as he waited to head out for lunch with Aziraphale. It was the same old thing: the Ritz, split bill, meaningful conversations about nothing important. He had expected it, but somehow, he almost knew deep in his bones that it wasn't going to wind up that way that afternoon.

He had gone into his office and thought about rearranging the layout of the room, just to pass the time. He picked up the sleek desk clock and peered at the bright digits.

"Hello, Crowley."

He stopped and let the clock slide back down onto the desk's top with a quiet thud.

If he had a beating heart, it would have stopped and he would have fallen over dead right there. He wished he could have done just that.

Slowly, Crowley raised his head and turned. He did not dare keep his line of sight away from his guest, a creature he had not realized was there until it was too late to run or plan.

In the middle of his office stood a tiny girl of eight or so, with golden curls and delicate pink cheeks. Her skin was so white, it could have been carved marble. The dress was a mess of pink frills.

Crowley swallowed hard.

"Hello, Lilith," he said, voice rasping.

So, this was how it was going to end.

He hoped Aziraphale wouldn't mind him missing lunch.

Lilith beamed and her stolen blue eyes twinkled in the light. She had her hands tucked behind her back and she bounced on her heels. Her shoes were white with buckles.

"It's been too long," she said, pink lips pulling back to reveal an all-white smile. "Last time I saw you, well…"

"It's been an age or two," Crowley said. He glanced at the door and tried to hide it behind his glasses. "Young as ever, you are."

Lilith puffed up at the compliment. "Thank you. I love pubescents. They have the nicest skin," she said, running one hand over another.

There would be no running. He could not trick her like he had tricked the Duke. He had no holy water, and even if he did, using it against her would be tantamount to suicide.

This was the end of the road, he realized.

He did his best not to show he had had that realization.

"What brings you to this neck of the woods?" Crowley asked stiffly. He turned and adjusted the clock he had knocked over. "I would have made tea or gotten a plate for you—"

The thud behind him matched the sharp terror that flooded his body. He turned anyway. He came face to face with soulless white eyes. Lilith smiled, her teeth flawless, balanced on the edge of the desk as if she had been there all along.

"Game's over, Crawley," she said, grinning.

"I figured," he said, his skin clammy and cold.

Lilith did not just tear into him. She could have destroyed the entire flat with just a small gesture. She was the First demon. She would always be the most powerful. She could have even killed Aziraphale if she tried. On the desk, Lilith did nothing but grin.

"They always said you were a coward," she said, giggling. "If you were a human, you'd probably be on the ground cowering."

"When faced with certain annihilation, I suppose anyone would," he replied. He reached up and took his sunglasses off in some weak show of courage.

This was it. It was over. Seven thousand years of running and pretending like it would never be over came crashing down harder than it had six months ago when the world almost ended. Then, he hadn't been face to face with his death. Then, he had some false sense of hope to cling to.

 _This_ was personal and he could not deny the fact that that made it infinitely worse. The fear. The sense of helplessness.

Briefly, illogically, he wondered if Aziraphale would find out Crowley was dead before he too was hunted down. It probably didn't matter, either way. If Hell had come for him, Heaven would not be far behind Aziraphale.

 _It's been a pleasure, mate_ , Crowley thought.

Lilith was watching him and never stopped smiling. She seemed terribly amused. This had been the closest he had ever been to her. It was not pleasant, even if she wasn't there to—

"You think I'm here to kill you," Lilith said, her smile changing into innocent surprise.

Crowley stopped. "Uh." He blinked. "Yes."

Lilith blinked back with full eyelashes before she grinned again. "I like you."

With that, she hopped off the table and went over to his bookshelf. Crowley watched her peer around at the books.

"Thanks. I suppose," he said, feeling horribly exposed.

What was this? Was this actually a prelude to his punishment or was this some kind of trap that posed an even greater threat? His involvement in Adam Young's disappointing conclusion in Tadfield had been very clearly noted by both Heaven and Hell.

 _What is going on?_ Crowley thought shrilly as he watched the First demon browse his collection.

"Why, if I may ask, are you here, then?" he asked before could think twice.

Lilith didn't look at him. "To give you a job."

Crowley felt the world tilt out of alignment.

"Oh," he said dumbly.

Lilith gave him a simpering look. "Because, despite that last hiccup six months ago, you have been rather good at doing our Father's work on Earth. Seven thousand years…quite the resume."

"…forgive me," he said. He braced himself. "But I don't believe that."

"Oh, but it has been seven thousand years," Lilith insisted.

"Not that," he said, clenching his hands around the edge of the desk so tightly, the wood creaked. "You cannot…"

There was no way he was getting a clean slate after Adam Young. He had botched the bloody biblical apocalypse. He had teamed up with an angel and had attempted to take a tire iron to the Devil's face. He was not just getting away from this with a bloody promotion.

His silence was noted.

"Ah, let me guess… you're trying to figure out why your little _mistake_ , your little glitch, six months ago somehow evens out under seven thousand years of you fucking an angel and drinking tea," Lilith said, shrugging. "Yes, that's a good question, isn't it?"

Crowley waited for it—the inevitable explosion of violence. He expected pain, retribution, punishment. It never came.

"But relax, Crawley, you're not useless, so I'm not going to kill you," Lilith said after a beat of tense silence. Words like that from anyone else would have been reassuring. Now, it was more of a threat.

"I'm…relieved, ma'am. To hear that," he said, not believing it still. This was… too good to be true. There had to be a trick there, but he couldn't see it yet.

"I bet you are," she said, shoulders shaking with quiet laughter. Her eyes, despite being pure white, had malice in them.

Crowley leaned back against the desk and tried to ignore the fact he needed to brace himself in order to keep standing. "What…do I have to do?"

It could have been anything, but he could not refuse it now. Maybe it was another baby, but that wasn't right—they wouldn't put him anywhere near another apocalypse plan with his notoriety now.

"You're going to go to America and take over a position in the Crossroads there," she said, speaking swiftly compared to before. "We've lost quite a few of our agents due to hunters getting cocky." She flashed him a grin. "We need you to start building our reserves up."

"Why?" Crowley asked. He winced and continued, "I mean…"

"Because we seem to have spent the last seven thousand years worth of dirty human souls on the last apocalypse, which, oh, failed spectacularly due to your deliberate intervention," Lilith drawled. She tugged a book loose from the shelf and let it fall to the clean floor with a sharp slap. "So, Crawley, you're going to pay Hell back for each one of those souls you made us lose."

"I…see," he said, voice weak to his own ears.

He wasn't part of the Crossroads system. Buying souls from unwitting or desperate humans had never struck him as good business. He liked to cause problems or drive humans to commit travesties against each other. Being directly involved like that?

That… did not seem right.

Aziraphale wouldn't like it, that much Crowley knew for sure.

"I'm…not accustomed to sales, unfortunately," he said, knowing it was a lame answer. He didn't want this. "I've spent most of my career thwarting or inspiring… not… buying."

"Then it's a very good thing you're Hell's top bullshitter, isn't it?" Lilith replied, sweetness becoming bitter.

"I would hate to ruin your budding market plans overseas—," he tried to say.

All at once, the room darkened. Crowley winced as Lilith moved closer.

"If you don't get back in the game, Crowley," she said quietly, leaning in closer. Even while shorter, she loomed. "I will kill you myself. And don't think we've forgotten your friend."

"Friend?" Crowley repeated, but he already knew what she was talking about. He didn't want to think about it, but it was there, blatantly, without mercy—

"Oh, I know about the angel," she said. Lilith laughed, her laughter like bells. "Funny. I never thought you would have the balls to walk up to Lucifer with a tire iron in one hand and an angel on the other side."

Aziraphale.

Crowley's eyes drifted to the sharp edges of the bookshelf and oak door. He thought about a lot of things. Most of it was unimportant. Like ducks and lunch. Books. Getting drunk. A definitive absence of loneliness.

There was a lot to think about when one had seven thousand years of memories to reflect upon.

Demons did not care about other people.

In the end, he had very little choice. He supposed that was how it was always supposed to be.

"Do you have an answer for me?"' Lilith asked sweetly when his eyes fell back upon her.

He did in fact have an answer he wanted to give, but going with his first option would certainly wind up with him being obliterated.

He went with the second option.

"I'll do it," he said.

Lilith's smile was like a razor. "Good," she said.

Crowley watched the little terror curtsy politely and leave. She left him standing there in his office alone with everything he had just been given.

He stood there for another half hour with those lonely thoughts.

He needed a plan B.

He didn't have one.

Aziraphale called him three times and he simply deleted the messages. Seven hours after Lilith's visit, Crowley was already in the United States.

He would not be coming back.

**0000**

**Florida, United States of America  
1991**

Demons did not care about other people.

Crowley, he had learned about himself in the last few years, was not a very good demon.

He was, however, very good at getting souls. Very good.

He had always known he was a good manipulator. Everyone knew that about him. He _was_ the Serpent in the Garden, after all. Or at least he had been.

Selling contracts at crossroads was immensely different than thwarting good intentions or inspiring evil paths in mankind's evolution. As a lower-rung Crossroads demon, Crowley had to answer the unearthly call of the specific region he was stationed at (some awful place in the southern area of the country; the blessed temperatures were terrible) whenever a human did the inane ritual that set off a ripple affect in Hell's network. The bone of a cat, the dirt from a graveyard and a photo of the client—and that's all it took to get him to show up anymore.

It was degrading, but Crowley did not complain once. He was alive and everything seemed to be at a stand-still when it came to his probation. He heard nothing about what was going on in England. Aziraphale must have looked everywhere for him. The angel could have hunted him down eventually, but Crowley was more relieved than disappointed when a year passed and the angel didn't show.

Against all rational sensibility, Crowley was grateful the angel didn't just barrel into his probation and get them both killed. It was lonely, but Crowley couldn't afford to think like that, even after seven thousand years of never being alone before.

Day after day, he bought souls. He granted inane wishes—miracles of Hell—to give the poor money, the sick longevity and the rich the chance to get richer. It always came down to money or loved ones, since, well, only the truly desperate would ever research the idea of a Crossroads deal in the first place.

Crowley felt sick satisfaction knowing he was good and knowing Hell noticed he was good at being a salesman. It was so easy to convince the nervous humans who called him out that ten years was a long time and whatever it was they desired was truly worth an eternity in Hell. Time spent buying souls gave Crowley new insight into human nature: they were all morons. At least things were looking up for _him_.

One uncomfortable summer day, he found himself drawn to a housing development outside of Jacksonville. Crowley pulled his magic—all human, all retail—and got a sweaty real estate agent to sell his soul in order to become a real estate mogul in the area for the next decade. He'd make millions.

He'd also burn in Hell for all eternity. At least Crowley could make it sound like a fair trade.

The human scampered off to his car and Crowley watched dully as the sun burned overhead.

"Stupid," he murmured to himself. He took out a cigarette, stared at it, and held it to his lips as the end spontaneously lit. He didn't know if he liked it or not yet.

He didn't feel a pang of another client anywhere near. He still wasn't sleeping, since people often called upon the crossroads at night. They didn't have to summon a demon at midnight, but most humans went for theatrics.

Sighing, Crowley adjusted his collar—he refused to acknowledge the heat and always wore his dark jacket—and sauntered down the empty streets. It was shocking how empty the area was. He was used to taller buildings and people everywhere. America could be overcrowded in the cities, but it was always a surprise to see how big and flat it actually was.

He was halfway down the block when he heard someone say something; it wasn't his last client.

"Hey."

He kept walking, ignoring the distant call.

"Hey!"

Crowley only then realized there was someone running after him. It wasn't the real estate agent.

Turning around, he saw a dark haired white male, middle aged and wearing a worn winter coat, running down the street. The human slowed and was gawking at Crowley. His eyes were lined with lack of sleep and his face was unshaven.

"You're a demon, aren't you?" the human asked without pause.

Crowley arched an eyebrow. He then turned around and started to walk again. He had already gotten one soul. He was good, but he didn't exactly like doing it. He hoped he could learn to like it eventually, since it didn't seem like he'd be changing up anytime soon.

"Wait!" the human called out, sounding frantic.

"And here I thought this area was full of squatters and illegals," Crowley drawled. He brought the cigarette up to his lips and almost took another drag.

"You're Crowley, aren't you?"

He stopped dead.

It was just a human. There was no one else in that housing development; the client had already driven off. Crowley did not think it was a trap. He did, however, turn and fix the breathless human with a cold glare.

"Excuse me?" he asked, dropping the cigarette.

To know his name—to know any demon's name—was a very odd thing for a human. A very… troubling thing.

"I need your help," the human said, ignoring the danger signs or merely not seeing them. He just stood there with splayed arms, completely submissive.

Crowley moved closer, eyes narrowed. "Who are you?"

The human seemed to struggle for a moment. "The Doctor said you can do magic," he said after a beat. "I know it was years ago, but he told me you were his friend and that you were a demon and you could grant miracles."

The Doctor?

What doctor—?

Crowley's jaw dropped faintly.

Oh, fuck no. A flash of memories—nearly two years ago, in London, a strange alien in a transdimensional spacecraft hidden as a phone box. That damned alien told people about him? By _name_?

"Bloody hell, I'm not a _circus performer_ ," Crowley spat, rounding on the human. Yes, this one was definitely a human. "Who are you?"

"Canton Everett Delaware, the third," the man said in one big breath. "Please."

"Do you have any bloody idea—you know what?" Crowley asked, his patience evaporated. "Where is he?"

"Who?" this Canton asked, startled.

"The Doctor!" Crowley spat. "I have had it up to here with his jumping around into Earth business." He needed to make it clear that there could be _no more talking about the failed-apocalypse_ —ever. The less they talked about, the sooner his transgressions would become faded memories and then—then it would be _safe_ —

"He's not here," Canton said, looking a bit taken aback. "I haven't seen him in nearly twenty-five years."

Crowley hissed. "Then, what—?"

"I don't know where he is, so I can't ask him to help me. I don't have time," Canton said quickly. He exhaled sharply and ran a hand over his tired face. "But he said you were magical. Years ago, when we met, he told me about how he helped you save the world or something. And that magic exists. I…I need magic right now. Even the Doctor can't help me now."

Crowley observed him closely, his mind racing. Why would the Doctor ever tell a human about the supernatural realm of earth and recommend…him? How did the Doctor know he had become a Crossroads demon anyway? Time traveling was probably the explanation, but…it was suspicious.

And mildly alarming the more Crowley thought about it. The Doctor was telling random people about him, by name, as if he was a human sympathizing wizard or something. This was not good. Not good at all for his laying-low-like-a-good-demon plan.

"…You seem like a desperate man," he said at length, unable not to sound gruff.

Canton smiled; it was a sick expression. "You have no idea," he said.

"Well, then, Mr. Delaware…." Crowley moved closer and squinted at the human, who seemed unaffected by his presence. A brave, desperate man then. "The only reason I am going to tell you this is because you apparently know the Doctor. And if I don't tell you this, and he finds out, it'll probably be more trouble than it's worth."

"Tell me what?" Canton asked, finally looking a little wary.

Crowley pushed his sunglasses up further. "That desperate men asking me for a deal leads those desperate men straight into Hell," he said simply. "I am a demon. A Crossroads demon now, but even if I wasn't, making deals makes me a very good demon." He gestured at the human while forcing a brief smile. "And you? A very sad, unfortunate man."

"But if I made a deal, you would help me?" Canton asked, insistently.

"I don't want to help you," Crowley said, irritable. If he ever found that blasted alien, he'd rip his name from his mind. "Like I said. More trouble than it's worth." Crowley turned about-face and walked decidedly down the sidewalk. "Good day, Mr. Delaware."

He had intended to leave the area and take the rest of the day to try to get the sickly feeling out of his skin, but unfortunately, his previous company was not leaving quietly.

"WAIT!" the human yelled. There was a clattering sound of the human kicking aside construction equipment as he ran after the demon.

Crowley ignored how the human dogged him and seemed completely ignorant to the concept that chasing a demon who had dismissed him was a terrible idea. Canton kept up, irritatingly well.

"It's my fiancé," the human said, voice shaking mostly from having to walk that fast.

"Get a new one," Crowley growled. Humans and their stupid sentimentalities. Didn't they realize by now that they were all a dime-a-dozen?

Canton nearly stumbled again on the sidewalk. "I'd rather not."

"A good looking mate like you could find a gal in no time, I'm sure."

"He's one of a kind."

Okay, that made Crowley pause for a second.

"Oh. Well, that's too bad," he said, continuing at his quick pace. The human unfortunately did not fall behind.

"The Doctor said your kind always makes deals," Canton said, as if he hadn't been told to get lost already. "Don't you want my soul?"

At that, Crowley whirled around and the human nearly fell into him. Crowley loomed as best he could, and even at his worst attempt, he was intimidating.

"Is your soul really worth a life of one person?" he demanded, granting Canton no moment to respond with inane, immediate answers. "Because this isn't just you trading places here. This is you _rotting away_ in Hell for all _eternity_ just so your lover can live another forty years."

Why did humans do this? Why did they never consider the consequences? Why… why did allowing them to jump at the first sign of a miracle make Crowley feel like there was a sickness crawling through his mortal skin that he could never purge?

Canton looked lost under everything he had said. "I…" the human began, voice catching.

Crowley waited and hoped that for once, a human would be rational.

"Yes," Canton said after that long handful of seconds, sounding resolute.

"You are an idiot," Crowley hissed, eyes narrowed. He materialized another cigarette and let it burn.

"No, not really. Just a fool in love, most likely," the human replied, grinning weakly. "But you'll take it? The deal?"

Crowley considered it for a moment.

"No," he said, whirling around and stalking off down the street.

He was not going to be nice and take this man's soul for something so petty. Maybe that was the more evil, demonic thing to do, he thought sarcastically. Ignore the soul because it was what the man wanted so dearly. How ironic. He wondered if he'd earn a commendation for that.

"I am begging you," Canton called. Crowley spared him a glance and stopped when he saw the human now had a gun out, pointed at Crowley.

It was almost hilarious.

"With a gun," Crowley said, arching an eyebrow.

Canton smiled. The shaky grip on his weapon betrayed his stress. "I can't let him die because I didn't try harder," he said. That was his only excuse.

"Trading your soul isn't trying harder, human," Crowley said. "It's just pointless."

"I am _begging_ ," Canton repeated, sounding like a man who never did such things. His eyes were shining brightly. "Please."

Why? Why did humans do this? This—this saving each other thing? It made no rational sense. Humans were designed to place self-preservation above all else, but yet it always seemed to come back down to this.

All at once, Crowley understood why he refused Canton. It wasn't because he cared if one human died or not, but rather, it was easy. It was too easy for the humans. They lost their souls and went to Hell for all eternity, but they still…

They could still _fix_ things.

And Crowley couldn't fix one blessed thing in his life. Not his past mistakes, not his current messes and he certainly couldn't keep the very few lives that had ever managed to get tangled up into his from interfering with his life now. He didn't have something so easy as a Crossroads deal to fix…

Unless…

Crowley found himself staring out at the empty road and slowly tilted his head in realization.

All at once, the Serpent had a plan.

It was not a sane or a safe one. But it was a plan. One that could keep him alive. One that…could keep everyone alive. Everyone who had made themselves a blatant target of revenge in the wake of Adam Young's failure. Everyone who was now a liability to him, whether he wanted it or not.

Slowly, Crowley turned and looked back at the desperate human.

"I don't want your soul," Crowley told him, suddenly feel like he was on fire.

"Please—," Canton said, eyes wide in alarm at what he thought was rejection.

"I'll take something else though," Crowley said. He was glad he did not have a heart that would have been racing.

Aziraphale would not approve of this one bit.

"Anything," the human told him, lowering the gun.

"I need your body."

Canton froze. "My… body?"

"I need a new face," Crowley explained carefully. "A new reputation and a new face. We only got one of our own topside and this one…needs to disappear for a bit."

He would hide it somewhere safe. That way, if he had to, he could have a reliable "back-up" if his new job failed or he lost favor. He had to make sure he cut no corners with this. It had to be done perfectly, his ascension to the top of good graces here. He could do it alone, even if the benefits reached out to others across the ocean.

This…could work.

He couldn't get them out of the limelight, but he could bide them time. He could win every good grace he could from his people and use it to kill the rumors and the bad press. He had to become the best demon that ever walked the Earth, one who groveled at Hell's feet. He could force the failure from their minds if he could just do enough evil, enough good for Hell's new agenda, that all the lives who had interfered before would simply be irrelevant. He had to make their failure _irrelevant_.

And this was the best way to start, he realized, by starting over. Literally.

If it had been anyone else there—Aziraphale, Sherlock, Adam—who had to make this choice to save their lives, Crowley knew they wouldn't be able to do it. It had to be him, Crowley realized.

He had to be the one to make the tough choices.

"I…" Canton began, several things flashing over his face. Very little fear, though.

"You won't lose your soul, if that helps," Crowley said, tucking his hands into his pockets. He felt like this was a hallucination or a dream. Except, demons didn't dream. "You get to hitch a ride with me in the meantime, and well, once things calm down for my people, I'll let you get on your own merry way."

"Can't you just _take_ a body?" Canton asked, brow furrowed, trying to figure out things he didn't understand. Apparently the Doctor had explained some things to him. Oh, he was going to pay for this.

Crowley snorted. "Fallen angel, unfortunately. Rules are different for us who once had wings," he said. He loomed closer, letting his golden serpentine eyes be seen clearly beyond the rim of his glasses. "I need your permissssion."

"Then have it," Canton said, eyes bright. "Save David. I don't care."

Humans were so stupid.

Crowley took a steadying breath.

"If the Doctor asks, be sure to remind him of that and that this wasn't just my idea," he said after a long moment of silence. Part of him had been hoping the human would have changed his mind in that time.

"Thank—," Canton began, relief flooding his expression. He was glad for this, for this deal, for Crowley's agreement.

"Don't thank me yet," Crowley warned him. That was all he could give the human now.

He left his body—his body, the body given to him by Hell as its agent on Earth—and took the human in front of him whole. He had never possessed a human before. He had never had to.

Everything that he was—not a soul, because demons, especially fallen angels, did not have souls—slammed into the new body. Whatever Canton was, whatever made up a human's soul, was no match for Crowley's essence. It swamped and drowned the human spark and shoved it aside. Crowley briefly hoped he knew what he was doing. It seemed horrendously easy to snuff that human spark out.

But perhaps it was sturdier than it looked at first. Crowley was amazed by the sheer boldness of Canton's soul. It was smaller and it was weaker, but it was solid. It did not fight him invading its domain, but the moment Crowley touched that glowing light, he understood everything.

He saw how Canton and the Doctor had met, two decades ago. It wasn't the Doctor Crowley had known—this one with a different face, with a brown suit and two companions he didn't recognize. An older Doctor perhaps, one from a very different world and time, and not the same one who had just left London in 1990. They had saved the world from an invading alien race that no one seemed to remember now. Canton was a brave man. A brilliant FBI agent and a clever actor, who had done everything he could to save his world. He had trusted the Doctor.

Trusted him enough to seek out a monster to save the life of someone he loved. He had asked the Doctor all about the different things that existed. This new Doctor had told Canton in 1969 about the monsters out there in the dark. Canton had filed it away in his mind, an ace to hold onto should he ever run into those monsters.

But desperation made men illogical. It made them seek out monsters instead of merely preparing to fight them. Canton had remembered the Doctor's "old friend Crowley" and sought out what he prayed and hoped was another ally from beyond. His skills as a law enforcer served him well there. It was almost admirable.

Hot memories that flashed white with angry and grief caught his eye. He followed them down into more recent events. Crowley saw this David, but Canton did not remember his fiancé's better days now.

He had loved him for twenty-seven years. They were both at the middle part of human lifespans, but it was already too late for David, who lay crippled in a hospital bed in D.C. from an attack by homophobic punks who had nothing better to do that hunt down couples in parks late at night. Since Canton's expulsion from the FBI, they had had to work where they could and they had only meant to spend more time together when there was a spare moment. And then it was all taken away _again_ —

The raw sense of grief, hate, and desperation settled deep within him, Crowley pushed it aside, all onto Canton's little side of the body, and then sealed it off. All went quiet, as if he had shut off a running faucet.

The body was his. Crowley lifted his hands and inspected the digits. He looked down at his old one—which lay crumpled like a worn out suit on the ground—and thought it strange to look from the outside. He reached out and plucked up the cigarette from his motionless hand. It was still burning.

Slowly, Crowley remembered to breathe and it was only then that his borrowed heart beat a bit faster. It was overworked from stress as it was. Heartache could be so literal, Crowley learned.

"Humans always do things for love," he said to himself. He shook his head. "So stupid."

He was doing this so he wouldn't feel guilt. He disregarded the oddness of the fact he _would_ feel guilty if any of his allies died because of his overseers, however. That line of questioning his motives was too much to bear at that point in time.

Somewhere, across the ocean, two hunters, a demon, a witch, her husband, and an angel could sleep better at night, even if they didn't know it yet.

Crowley took another long drag of his cigarette before throwing it out into the wind.

He had a body to fix in a hospital up north and then a corporate ladder to climb.

He also had several more bodies to hunt down in a park.

**0000**

**Florida  
1992**

Two years after Adam Young failed and the world was saved, Crowley finally answered his phone. It was sort of a surprise that Aziraphale had found his number, but honestly, it was more of a surprise the angel hadn't just shown up to find him. Some outsiders judged Aziraphale for being too naïve about things; Crowley knew the truth and that was that Aziraphale was just as much of a paranoid bastard as Crowley was.

That's why he called and didn't just fly over, at any rate.

"Hello, angel," Crowley said, stopping in the small town he had come to. He had gotten another three souls that weekend. It had been a good haul. He had just gotten a commendation last week for his surpluses.

Aziraphale made a sharp sound. " _Where are you?_ "

"America," Crowley said.

" _America_?" It wasn't really a question. He had already known.

Crowley cleared his throat. "Florida, specifically."

At least Aziraphale sounded all right. Maybe this was working. Maybe Crowley could fix this. He would have expected a mocking report from his bosses if they were about to hunt down one of his old allies. Instead, he had received silence. Clearly, it was working.

"… _Why_?"

"Ngk."

Aziraphale made a tsking sound. " _Oh, dear_ ," he said. " _Was it…you ran into one of them, didn't you? Lilith? Or Alastair?_ "

"Maybe," Crowley said, glancing around carefully. He seemed to be alone, but he never trusted his luck anymore.

" _Are you all right?_ " Aziraphale asked.

"Obviously, if I'm well enough to chat," Crowley said, before the other being could discern if he was being honest. "Look, angel, we've got a situation."

" _Obviously_ ," Aziraphale said, sniffing. " _What can I do to help?_ "

"Nothing."

" _Crowley_ —"

"Literally, nothing," Crowley said shortly. "Hell's willing to ignore our… transgressions, granted I play nice. I'm still the best damn salesman they've got topside. They need the souls."

He specifically did not mention he had just received a promotion for his efforts last month and that was all according to his own specific plans.

" _Oh_ ," Aziraphale said, without asking, _What for?_ It was good he didn't actually ask that, since Crowley did not know yet either. He had a feeling he didn't want to know.

Crowley rubbed his tired eyes. "And you need to keep an eye on Zephyr. Lilith didn't say anything about him, so I figured he was clear for now." Just one more loose end they had to keep under wraps…

" _He's fine_ ," Aziraphale said, sounding oddly proud. Of course he had adopted the wind spirit, just as he had adopted every other unfortunate creature who had wandered into their midst in London. " _He's growing up into that Holmes boy quite well._ "

"Keep tabs on him," Crowley warned as he fought off a headache. "Keep him under."

The last thing he needed were more hostages to be played against him. It wasn't like he gave a damn about the other demon, but it wasn't Crowley's feelings that were being played directly. Aziraphale could be guilted in nearly anything.

There was Anathema and Newt to worry about, too. Adam probably could handle himself, but what about those two hunters who had tagged along? Aziraphale was always too sympathetic, so if their enemies decided to use their human allies against them, they could get to the angel quite easily. And that, Crowley wasn't sure he could personally handle at the moment.

And the Doctor himself. Crowley couldn't see him getting caught up with demons easily, but the man did travel to far off places. There was no telling if he'd ever get on their shit list as well. It was always a possibility now. Even if the future-Doctor had been alive to tell Canton about their existence.

" _I thought you said we were going to be ignored_ ," Aziraphale said, a question hovering in his voice.

"By _my_ people. What about yours?"

"… _Point_."

"I would recommend moving, angel," Crowley said after a beat.

" _But—_ ," Aziraphale began in immediate, expected objection.

Crowley growled. "Store the damn books," he snapped. "You don't sell any of them, anyway."

There was a short pause and he could almost imagine Aziraphale staring at the phone in flustered dismay. " _But, Crowley, this is a bit…rushed?_ " the angel asked, sounding pained. Interesting; he wasn't dismissing the idea of shutting down his bookshop. Clearly, Aziraphale was scared, too.

"We're all going to have to make sacrifices if we want to survive to the next bloody apocalypse," Crowley said lowly.

Aziraphale made a soft sound. " _Oh, Crowley_."

"What?" Crowley asked, leaning more against the wall.

" _I'm sorry_ ," the angel replied, sounding heartbroken.

Crowley stared at the wall. "…There's no need to be sorry."

" _My dear, you have no idea how sorry I am all the same_ ," Aziraphale said, meaning it in a way that made Crowley's stomach churn.

"Ngk."

" _Will you be visiting any time soon?_ " the angel asked hopefully.

Crowley doubted it, sincerely. "Maybe."

" _Be well, Crowley_ ," Aziraphale said, sighing.

"I'll try," Crowley said, not entirely lying, since he was definitely trying to stay alive. And outwit his employers.

" _You will_ ," Aziraphale said, sounding more confident. " _You're a crafty serpent_."

The faint teasing made Crowley abruptly smile, luckily only into the brick. "Oh, that I am," he said.

" _Call, or I'll be forced to find you myself_ ," the angel warned.

"You wouldn't want to come over to the States."

" _Exactly. I'm trying to make you feel guilty about me exposing myself to them._ " 'Them' being Americans.

"Me? Guilty? Angel, you obviously don't know who you're dealing with here," Crowley said, moving so his back was against the wall. He stared up at the sky and a smiled grimly while no one could see it.

" _I know him quite well_ ," Aziraphale said softly. He let out a shaky breath. " _Stay safe, Crowley._ "

He meant it when he said it. That was sort of worse in context.

"You too, Aziraphale," Crowley said, closing his eyes.

He shut the phone and took a deep breath. He would rise, he would climb, and he was succeed there. Even if it did kill him.

Demons did not care about other people.

Crowley did not have that sort of luxury.

 

  
**End** _**Choices** _ **.**  


**Author's Note:**

> Next, the Lestrade family spills its secrets.
> 
> A/Ns:  
> -YES, the Eleventh Doctor is the one to meet Canton, as per canon, not the "typical" Tenth Doctor that will be predominantly appearing in this fic series. Yes, future!Doctor clearly knows more about future events than we (including Crowley) do. Fuckin' time travel, man.  
> -Yes, Canton is still from 1969. I made him younger at the time of "Day of the Moon," to around age 25 (born in 1944). In 1991, he'd be around 50 years old, which fits Mark Sheppard's appearance better. He's aged well.  
> -Amended to that note: in case you've never seen Canton or SPN!Crowley, they are played by the same actor, Mark Sheppard. This is my way of reconciling how GO!Crowley will look like SPN!Crowley. Bless u, SuperWhoLock.  
> -They never gave Canton's fiancé a name, so I just made one up. No, Nixon never let them get married. :C  
> -I only placed them in Florida as a nod to Mrs. Hudson's "husband." Refer to Sherlock episode 1 of series 1.  
> -"Fallen angel" – by his own admittance in Good Omens, Crowley is a fallen angel, so like Lucifer, he most likely can't just body-hop. I've merged this into SPN!Crowley as best I could.


End file.
